Tear It Apart
by Brambleshadow of WindClan
Summary: [Part 2 of Going Under. Based on "Fire and Ice" by Pat Benatar. DarkTen/Martha. TW: non-consensual drug use, non-consensual sexual situations, non-consensual memory alteration.] "Fire and ice. You come on like a flame, then you turn a cold shoulder. Fire and ice. I wanna give you my love, but you'll just take a little piece of my heart. You'll just tear it apart. . . ."


**This is a follow-up of sorts to "Lipstick Lies". It is not necessary to read that, but it _would _help with some of the minor references. I guess I wanted to make this more of a character study on Martha's feelings for the Doctor, but then DarkTen crept in. Which makes sense, considering "Lipstick Lies" is a Dark Doctor story. **

**Based on "Fire and Ice" by Pat Benatar. Some scenes were inspired by me listening to "Snow White Queen" by Evanescence on a loop while writing.**

******I'm not too sure about the ending. Suggestions on how to improve it would be appreciated.**

**Trigger Warnings: non-consensual drug use, non-consensual sexual situations, non-consensual memory alteration. Or, Ten basically taking advantage of Martha and her feelings for him in the worst way possible.**

* * *

**Tear It Apart**

_Ooo, you're giving me the fever tonight.  
__I don't wanna give in. I'd be playin' with fire . . ._

Martha Jones, stretched out on the jump seat in the TARDIS, studied the lean dark figure of the Doctor through half-closed eyes. His long brown coat was draped over one of the coral struts and the man—Time Lord—himself was perched on another with one leg drawn up to his chest and the other dangling over the edge. The green light from the time rotor cast half of his angular face and body into shadow, left the rest of him bathed in murky light. His hands, with those long, slender fingers, were draped and crossed over one knee, fingers occasionally intertwining or picking absent-mindedly at the leg of his blue trousers. Martha was fascinated by those hands, that lean body; would imagine his fingers lightly dancing over her skin while his mouth and the rest of him were otherwise occupied.

Heat flooded her cheeks now as the Doctor turned his head, his eyes meeting hers, and his mouth curved in a slow smile. Could he tell what she was thinking? Mortified, Martha quickly glanced away. No matter what her fantasies were; never mind how she felt about the Doctor, she wouldn't give in. If she did, she'd be playing with fire. Besides, the Doctor had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want her, not in _that_ way. His _precious, perfect _Rose was the exception, not the rule.

Surely he had to know what he did to her with every look, every touch, every word. How could he not?

_You forget I've seen you work before.  
__Take 'em straight to the top.  
__Leave 'em cryin' for more.  
__I've seen you burn 'em before. . . ._

But then, he'd told her about Reinette, also known as Madame de Pompadour and whose real name was Jeanne-Antionette Poisson . . . and what that lapse in judgment had almost cost him, despite the fact he'd done nothing with Reinette and he had never returned the French woman's feelings. Even so, he'd wanted to take her on one trip to show her the stars, had told her to pack a bag and he'd come back for her.

She'd died waiting for him to return.

Then there was that matron, Nurse Joan Redfern. She'd fallen in love with the Doctor when he'd turned himself human, and his human self had fallen for her as well. John Smith's anguished words and expression came back to Martha now: "_Falling in love? That didn't even occur to him?!'_

No, it hadn't, Martha thought bitterly, because the Time Lord was still in love with and pining after Rose.

The point was, the Doctor had left both Reinette and Joan crying, longing for more; had given both of them more than he'd ever given her—and . . . he'd left them burned.

_Lady killer_, Martha thought, shifting her position until she was lying on her side, her legs curled up in a manner similar to the fetal position. She wanted to give him everything, but he'd just take her heart and tear it apart, would whisper promises in the dark.

_Fire and ice.  
__You come on like a flame,  
__Then you turn a cold shoulder.  
__Fire and ice.  
__I wanna give you my love,  
__But you'll just take a little piece of my heart.  
__You'll just tear it apart._

The Doctor's smile faded but his eyes never left Martha's form, now curled up in a ball. A blush was harder to detect on her, but he'd noticed, just as he'd taken note of the fact she glanced away as soon as she saw him watching her. As if he couldn't begin to guess: this tenth body _was _incredibly good-looking—sexy, even—if he did say so himself, and it wasn't as if she'd ever flirted with him or made advances towards him. Each time she did, he would either turn a cold shoulder or mention Rose.

At least it seemed like Martha didn't remember their exchange after he'd taken her to that vampire planet. He'd heard rumors about it, and since the Great Vampires and their descendants were ancient Time Lord enemies and the Doctor was the last of his kind, why not check it out? It was a little disappointing that Martha hadn't been turned. Now he'd have no excuse to— No matter. There were other, easier ways where his hand wouldn't be detected.

He smirked as another thought occurred to him. Of course. He'd drugged her before; why not do it again?

Sometimes, humans were so easy to manipulate. Martha was even more so.

(Rose would never let him get away with this; but then again, Martha wasn't Rose. Martha never could be, and he would give _anything _for his pink-and-yellow girl—his Bad Wolf, his _fantastic_ Rose Tyler, his lover—to be here with him right now.)

(If he had to, he would break the Laws of Time to have her back, consequences be damned. And there was nothing Martha could do about it.)

His current companion stirred, then sat up and swung her legs over the jump seat. She stood and walked out of the console room. Glancing back over her shoulder, she said, "I'll be in the library."

_Perfect_, he thought, and his smirk widened.

_Moving in for the kill tonight.  
__You've got every advantage when they put out the lights. . . ._

Martha glanced up from her book sometimes later at a knock at the door to see the Doctor standing there with two mugs of tea in his hands. He said, "I thought you might like a cuppa. Mind if I come in?"

"Um, no. It's your library. And thanks." She accepted the mug he offered her, took a sip, and then set it down and went back to reading.

Martha looked up again after a few seconds when she felt the fine hairs on the back of her arms prickle, saw that he was watching her with a strange look in his eyes, his expression an unreadable mask. "What?" she asked.

"Drink it all," he advised. "That's recommended. Doctor's orders."

"Why?"

"You're going to need your strength," he replied cryptically. The Doctor moved away to browse among the shelves, left his untouched mug on the little stand in front of her.

Martha eyed her own drink warily for a moment, then picked it up and wafed the hot steam toward her. She didn't smell anything abnormal—no nutty scent—so she shrugged and took another sip.

It didn't take long for her to drain the entire cup.

Everything went just a little bit hazy after that.

-oOo-

Her eyes slowly fluttered open to find she was being dragged—or maybe carried?—down a darkened corridor. She turned her head, saw that the Doctor was fully supporting her weight with her arms around his shoulders, one of his hands at her waist.

"Wha—? What're you doing?" The words came out slurred. She should be alarmed about that, she knew dimly, but she couldn't bring herself to feel much of anything.

"Taking you to bed." Was she imagining it, or was there a dark promise in his voice? No, there couldn't be. He'd made it _very _clear that he didn't think of her in _that _way.

"_Don't act like you don't want me to, Martha. I've seen the way you look at me, and I hate to tell you this, but that is never gonna happen."_

"_Because I'm not _her, _is that right?"_

_. . . "She saw more of me than you ever will, and doesn't that just _hurt_?"_

Strange. Where had that come from? She didn't remember having that conversation with him, didn't remember saying those words. . . .

Wait . . . This wasn't her room. Her room was nowhere near this part of the TARDIS. Where was he—?

The door slid open; the Doctor half-dragged, half-carried her inside the dark room, laid her down on the bed. Then his cool, slender hands were dancing over her body, slipping under her halter top, and his lips were at her throat.

"Tell me to stop. Martha, tell me to stop." The words sounded to her like they were coming through fog.

And she couldn't answer. No sound would come out. So she shook her head, but she wasn't sure what exactly she was saying no to.

She'd wanted him for so long, and yet . . . And yet, something was off.

If only she could think clearly. Why couldn't she think clearly?

His fingers found her bra, unclasped it, grazed over the newly-revealed mounds of flesh. Martha gasped, heard his low, dark chuckle.

A tiny worm of fear wriggled deep inside her. She should be pushing him away, should be screaming . . . but she was powerless to do anything except give in to his caresses. She couldn't scream.

_I can't scream . . .!_

His teeth nipped at her clavicle, and then his mouth moved up to her ear. "This is what you want, isn't it?" he growled.

Yes, but not like this . . . Never like this.

She couldn't move, couldn't think. His hands roamed over her upper body, his fingertips digging into her flesh.

There would be bruises in the morning.

She found she didn't care, especially not when her body was begging for more. And his mouth, his tongue, his fingers . . . Her already fuzzy mind went blank, then crowded over with sensations.

One more touch, one final nudge, and she went over the edge screaming. Martha lay there beneath him panting, trembling, wanting him again—wanting him inside her this time.

He flashed her a smirk, his brown eyes black, and brought his hand up to her face.

When she next woke, he was gone and she was in her own bed.

_It's not so pretty when it fades away,  
__Coz it's just an illusion in this passion play.  
__I've seen you burn 'em before. . . ._

"Martha?"

She scurried into a sitting position at the sound of the Doctor's voice, pulled the sheets up to cover her chest. He was standing in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Just thought I'd check in on you. You sleep okay?"

"I guess so." Martha frowned slightly. "How did I—?"

"Get here?" At her brisk nod, the Doctor said, "You fell asleep in the library—that cuppa must've been stronger than I thought—so I brought you in here and left."

That made sense, she supposed. So then why was it she could feel his fingers ghosting over her skin whenever she looked at him; had hazy, disjointed images of a dark hallway and him lying her down on a bed that was clearly not her own? No, it had to have been a dream because there was no way that would have happened in real life.

Disappointment flooded her at the thought it had all been an illusion. But then, what else would it be?

"All right then," the Doctor was saying—he'd kept talking, she only just realized—had she been nodding in agreement or something?—"c'mon. I've got something to show you." Without waiting for her, he turned on his heel and strode out of her room down the corridor.

He'd been like that ever since she'd met him: he'd talk to her at a hundred miles an hour about something that excited him or give her looks that sent her pulse racing . . . and then he'd turn away or shut her out in some other way. then there were the times he'd look at her only he wasn't seeing Martha Jones: He was remembering Rose Tyler.

Martha was just a rebound and she knew it, whether or not the Doctor did. If she got too close, she'd end up like Reinette or Joan. The thought wasn't appealing at all, but she couldn't help how she felt about him.

She shook off her thoughts and followed him.

"Where're you taking me this time?" Martha asked.

"You'll see." She could hear the smile in his voice.

For some reason, dread shivered up her spine.

-oOo-

The TARDIS landed with a thump, and the Doctor and Martha stepped out into a cold, barren landscape. Martha shivered, wrapped her arms around her body. Naturally, the Doctor looked completely unaffected by the snowy climate.

For all she knew, he was. She'd noticed he had a cooler body temperature than she did. Maybe all Time Lords ran cooler than humans. Since the Doctor was the last of his kind, she would never know.

Martha turned her head to see him, ask where and when they were, but the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. She looked forward again, saw that he was already at least ten feet ahead.

Figures, she thought, her eyes sliding past the spiky-haired Time Lord.

Then she saw the dire wolf, and she froze. "Doctor . . ."

"Relax," he said casually, without looking back. "It's not going to attack us."

_Yeah, right,_ Martha thought sarcastically, eyeing the large wolf warily. The Doctor may think he had the animal all figured out and while, without a doubt, he was an expert in several different fields, Martha didn't quite trust him this time. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to turn and run back to the TARDIS, to get _off_ this planet right now.

(And maybe get away from her designated driver, but she didn't want to dwell on that particular feeling/thought at the moment.)

"You're sure of that, are you?" she said out loud, breaking into a slow jog in order to catch up with the Doctor.

He shot her an irritated look. "_Yes,_ I'm _sure,_" he snapped.

The wolf was eyeballing them, Martha noticed. Her hand reached out, found the Doctor's, and squeezed tightly.

He sucked in air through clenched teeth, turned on her. "_What?_"

"That wolf is eyeballing us." Maybe she sounded paranoid, but she didn't really care.

"Don't be ridiculous. What did you ever do to it?"

_Nothing,_ she wanted to say, but she wasn't sure if that was exactly true. Couldn't wolves smell fear? Did they attack because of it?

Had the dire wolf moved closer? She swore it had. And were its hackles raised? Oh, she hoped not. Wolves were not one of her favorite animals, and childhood stories featuring evil werewolves really weren't helping.

The wolf suddenly threw back its head and howled. Martha just knew it was summoning the rest of the pack.

She had faced Carrionites, Zygons, Judoon, Professor Lazarus, Daleks, a living sun, Plasmavores, vampires, Weeping Angels, and had had to deal with the Family of Blood more or less on her own. She was no stranger to danger. Yet when six more dire wolves appeared, her first instinct was to turn and run.

The wolves crept closer, and Martha's mind went blank. It was gone completely in out-of-control terror.

She turned and ran.

-oOo-

"Martha!" the Doctor yelled after her.

His companion didn't stop. He knew she was aiming for the TARDIS, but bolting like that was the quickest way to get herself killed. Dire wolves, the ancestor of _Canis lupus lupus_ (which in turn were the ancestors and cousins of _Canis lupus familiaris_), were attracted to movement when hunting and would pick out the weakest, oldest, or most frightened animal. In this case, that would be Martha.

If the wolves weren't going to attack before, they certainly were now

_Well, it_ would _solve some of my problems . . . No, better not. Her timeline . . . Better keep her alive for now._

He sighed through his nose, then turned and glared at the pack before pulling out the sonic screwdriver. The tip glowed blue, and the dire wolves shied away from the silent scream of ultrasonic frequencies, whining and yelping with pain.

Satisfied, the Doctor pocketed the screwdriver and strolled back to his timeship with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Martha was already in the console room, her breathing rhythm erratic.

He didn't care.

"You do realize," he said coolly, "that was the dumbest thing you could have done? It was like putting up a huge neon sign saying, 'Here I am! Come and eat me!' Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"No!" Her dark eyes flashed fire that dimmed quickly. "I just— I don't like wolves, that's all."

The Doctor abruptly changed gears, shifting from angry and standoffish to concerned and caring friend. "Okay," he said, his expression softening. He stepped closer, pulled her in for a hug and fought off revulsion at her touch—she smelled wrong, felt wrong, wasn't _her_. "I didn't know. You never mentioned it."

"I never had to," she mumbled into his chest.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he pulled away. "Sorry." Avoiding eye contact, he busied himself with the controls. "We'll be in the Vortex soon. Fancy a trip back home?"

Martha blinked, shifted her weight. "Um, sure. It'll be good to see Tish and Leo, at least."

He nodded curtly. "Right, then. I'll let you know when we get there. Why don't you take ten?" He glanced up, saw her tentative smile. Then Martha turned down the corridor that led to the butterfly room (the last time he'd been in there was with Sam and Caroline back in his eighth body when he was hunting vampires in 1997 San Francisco).

She glanced back.

He didn't see it.

_You come on like a flame,  
__Then you turn a cold shoulder.  
__Fire and ice . . . _


End file.
